


To have. To hold. To carry up two flights of stairs and nearly drop you.

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Sick Fic, Soft boys are soft, Spooky Squad, author has no idea how social media works, so gratuitious artistic license
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: For the Spooky Squad™ prompt: Andrew gets sick (seeing as it's never him, lol), and of course is an embarrassed sunshine cinnamon roll about it. The rest of the squad fuss over him like a gaggle of foul-mouthed mother hens without supervision. Despite the obvious fluff potential of the situation, it turns out it's actually pretty damn serious. Bonus points for developing Gandrew! :)





	1. unfinished gen fic

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this fic is slightly different from my others- chapter one is the fic I originally planned, which is more of a gen fic and which I think is the better idea, but I just... couldn't finish it for whatever reason. halfway through my idea started changing and I started to delve deeper and become more of a gandrew shipper and I also has no idea where the fic was going,and I had already started thinking about a different idea which I think is less realistic, if that makes sense??? I dunno, they're both the same realistic-wise, and chapter one is the better idea but chapter three is the better fic to write??? that makes no sense, but I am uploading both (chapter one will remain unfinished forever and ever but I worked too hard on it to let it go to waste and I am proud of the idea and what plot I managed to plot; chapter two is a tiny, shitty drabble I had but you can see it as sort of the prologue to chapter three, which is the finished fic I managed to complete and just now have to type up.

His stomach has been home to an ache for the past two days when Andrew starts to consider that maybe he ought to do something about it. Of course he's been sick before, but this _hurts_. Really hurts. To the point that the only indication of how much of last night was spent actually sleeping and how much was spent curled into a feverish ball trying not to scream is how bad he feels. (And he had gone to bed at six thirty pm, what the _hell_.) The decision he made an hour ago to walk to Shane's house instead of driving in the hope that the unusually cold weather might bring his over-heated body some relief is coming back to bite him in the ass he's dangerously close to collapsing on to. There isn't a part of him that doesn't hurt at this point- normally it wouldn't take him so long to walk there but Andrew would be the first to admit that he's _not at his best right now_. The ground is shaky under his sneakers; the pain is burning underneath his skin; the times when he has to stop to recollect himself are getting more frequent. Some random passer-by actually approached him and asked if he was alright, and Andrew is ashamed to think of how all he did was nod and mumble a hardly-audible thanks when she was seemed like such a kind lady.

 

Part of him wants nothing more than to turn around and go home and curl up under a pile of blankets and cradle his unhappy stomach until it's recovered from whatever it was he ate two days ago. (And that's the weird thing- he doesn't actually pinpoint what caused his current misery. He'd been eating the same meals as Garrett for practically a week before that, and- God, he hopes Garrett hasn't come down with anything. Especially since he often steals food right off Andrew's plate-sometimes for Snapchat, sometimes just because- and the idea of Garrett feeling anywhere _close_ to how he does right now makes Andrew feel all funny in a way that isn't just nausea.)

 

The other part of him- the louder part- is saying that he's being ridiculous. That he's nowhere near sick enough to let Shane down when just an hour ago he clearly must have felt well enough to walk to his house. To let Ryland and Morgan down. To let Garrett down. The plan is some sort of group gingerbread challenge thing, and Garrett texted this morning to say he couldn't wait.

 

What will happen, if he turns round right now and texts he can't make it? Aside from the disappointment? What answer could he give that would be worth the embarrassment when he finally turned up to film again? The questions they would ask and the explanation he'd have to give?

 

_Oh, sorry I let everyone down. I had food poisoning and was a massive baby about it_.

 

The louder part of him flashes up a picture of Garrett's disappointed face. The possibility Garrett might come over to his place if he doesn't turn up. It's that part that makes Andrew shake his head and carry on walking and it's that part that gets him up the hill and knocking on the door to Shane's house saying "Sorry I'm late."

 

***

 

Stubbornness is not a cure for sickness, Andrew realises too late. The whole group is at Shane's house doing something fun and bright and blazing because these are fun and bright and blazing people he's friends with, and Andrew would find the jokes and delighted shrieks funny if he hadn't made the mistake of laughing once already and felt like he was being punched in the stomach. The peals of laughter make his head spin, and almost too late he realises he's close to embarrassing himself. Either they're going to play back the footage and see it's unusable for how his hands have been shaking, or he's going to throw up a mess to rival the neon pink gloop Morgan and Garrett are flicking at each other.

 

A cramp hits and he thinks _oh God_ ; shifts as subtlety as he can, seizes his chance and excuses himself to the bathroom. Doesn't slam the door as much as slump against it and crumple inelegantly to the floor.

 

It hurts it hurts it _hurts_ \- he can't breathe- he can't film- there isn't going to be any usable footage- it hurts- it hurts- oh God crap fuck it hurts- oh shit. Andrew prays he hasn't just let out a whimper. Wracks his brain to try and remember anything that might help him, but it's a futile venture because every spare nerve ending is screaming for relief. _I'm trying!_ he wants to say. The words make him want to cry- he's trying.

 

How long has he been in here anyway? Have the others noticed he's gone? God, he hopes not. He's burning enough already without adding any embarrassment to the mix. He doesn't think he'll survive the humiliation.

 

Is he going to puke on Shane and Ryland's bathroom floor?

 

"Oh God," he mumbles, words distended with groans, eyes burning over with a film of tears.

 

Film. He's meant to be- the others are going to be so disappointed- Garrett is going to worry- he's going to-

 

An idea comes to him.  Struggles and staggers up a mountain and wriggles up to the dying embers of his brain. Briefly, it erases the nausea; momentarily dulls the pain. It might be the best idea he's ever had in his life.

 

Carefully- this hope is fragile as a bubble and he doesn't know how he'll go on if it bursts- gently- slowly- he manoeuvres one arm out and snakes it round and tries rubbing his stomach. It hurts. It aches. It stops being excruciating and drops down to manageable. He tries a bit longer. Still hurts. The constant movement brings more nausea in its wake like sickly foam left over from waves. But it's bearable. _Stop being such a baby_ , Andrew wants someone to tell him. _Stop letting everybody down_. No excuses are left for him now- no _way_ is this groggy churning anything close to how he felt ten minutes ago, and he was filming then. This is nothing. It feels like forever, but no one's knocked on the door wondering what's taking him so long. If he can start feeling better in the same amount of time it's acceptable to occupy a bathroom, then clearly he can't be so bad, Andrew tells himself.

 

One- Two- Three- he pulls himself up, staggers, stands. The change in position brings relief like the tide going out.

 

(Later, he'll think how the tide goes out before a tsunami, too.)

 

He's fine. Someone is talking in a low voice in the other room. He hears Garret laughing. He's fine.

 

***

 

No one notices anything and Andrew thinks if he can just keep it that way 'til three o clock- four o clock- five o clock, the worst will be over and he can go home.

 

It's not like it's even that _bad_. It's not like he's even got a particularly hard job today. Filming is done and after lunch all that's left to do is make a start on editing the footage for this video and another one they filmed last week that Shane hasn't uploaded yet. All it requires is sitting on a couch and concentrating. If he can just get through lunch, Andrew thinks. If he can just get through the minefield that's going to be the next half hour. If he can just get through lunch- Garrett’s made sure to order something for _him_ , too, and Andrew's stomach is torn between melting at how thoughtful he is or revolting at the smell.

 

Carefully, he slips into the seat besides Garrett, and makes himself smile when his friend shoots him a concerned look.

 

"You okay?" he mouths.

 

"Fine," Andrew mouths back, ignoring his stomach as it aches with a renewed vengeance.

 

Garrett's face brightens up like the sun coming out and, as he turns to help Ryland hand out the food, Andrew feels slightly more optimistic about being able to get through lunch.

 

***

 

The real kick in the teeth is that he's only a hair's breadth away from making it through lunch.

 

***

 

The tinny of the music can barely be heard over the laughter. Morgan is cackling at Ryland's dancing; laughing so much she's slumped over Garrett's shoulder. Shane can barely hold the phone straight to broadcast his boyfriend all over Instagram Live and Andrew can _feel_ Garrett giggling beside him, and he’s laughing, too. If not so much at Ryland but the look of joy on Garrett’s face, but no one else needs to know that and he doesn’t need to admit that and he can work out these confusing feelings some other time. Preferably once he can actually laugh properly again, because he’s made that mistake already, and it hurt. The table wobbles dangerously as Ryland uses its edge as a makeshift ballet bar and he and Shane grab for the food that teeters dangerously close to disaster.

 

“Ryland!” Morgan shrieks, but it loses all effect because she’s still laughing.

 

“Are you trying to starve me?!” Shane joke-screams at him. Garrett and Morgan only laugh harder and Andrew is giggling right along with them.

 

“How can you starve when your boyfriend’s a _snack_ , baby?” Ryland replies without pausing his outrageous dance moves for even a second. His hands flutter out and pull Shane to dance with him and Andrew instinctively takes Shane’s phone out of his hand and carries on filming.

 

It’s loud and ridiculous and funny and if there’s anyone out there who isn’t distracted from all of their problems with a group of friends like this, then they would have to have some serious issues, because Andrew’s never felt better. Sure, now he’s standing up instead of sitting and he feels just a _bit_ light-headed, but it’s easily ignored.

 

Shane and Ryland shriek when the song changes to their favourite one; Morgan is dying with laughter and has set up Tyler and Benjamin to watch from their vacated seats, and Garrett is- Garrett beams up at him, pulls the phone round so the camera is on him, pulling Andrew round with it, and gleefully starts to provide the audience with a stream of hilarious commentary. When he glances down at the screen, Andrew sees comment after comment filled with heart emojis, and the fountain of hearts bubbling up the side of the video isn’t slowing down. Briefly, he flicks the camera over to Morgan and then to the babies, and when he turns it back to Garrett with Shane and Ryland dancing in the background, he swears he sees actual honest-to-God hearts in Garrett’s eyes. More endeared than alarmed, Andrew looks up from the on-screen version of his friend to the real thing sitting there in front of him, and that’s when everything goes black.

 

***

 

As far as Garrett is concerned, today is a Good Day™. The weather’s nice, his mice are happy, his house is finally clean and tidy, the editing for Part Two is at last _nearly_ done, today has been really great and fun and lunch was amazing- he definitely has to order from there again.

 

Maybe when he finally confesses to Andrew he likes him, they can go back to Garrett’s house and then order it there and watch a movie together?

 

The thought turns him sad, so Garrett laughs a bit harder to try and shaker the bad thoughts away. It’s not- he’s been better, lately, about his self-esteem and stuff. He doesn’t want to ruin it by thinking of how Andrew’s never going to like him back, but every time he puts the idea off the feelings grow larger, embed themselves deeper. Garrett doesn’t want to fall so in love with an unattainable man that he becomes unattainable to anyone else.

 

Shoving another chip in his mouth, he re-adjusts Benjamin and thinks of something else. Morgan is laughing and half falling out of her chair, Shane and Ryland are dancing and joking, Andrew is filming everything. Looking up, Garrett realises Andrew is filming _him_ and smiles a bit wider, because Andrew is smiling at him. Something in the backdrop of noise makes Andrew giggle (that soft, burbling giggle that never fails to do something to Garrett’s heart) and the redhead lowers the camera ever so slightly to look over it at him- he must be really happy, Garrett realises. He’s swaying to the music slightly, he’s not focused on keeping the camera exactly straight and upright, and he’s looking over at him and moves forward.

 

Garrett gets one blissful moment to imagine him coming over and sitting in his lap, and then Andrew’s _falling_ , the phone’s falling, and Garrett is falling to the floor too, scrambling over to where Andrew is lying curled up next to the chair- he’s lucky he didn’t hit his head- he isn’t lucky he’s fallen- he’s not- he’s collapsed- he looks pale- he looks terrible- oh _shit_.

 

“Andrew?” he demands. “Andrew!”

 

“Oh my God,” Morgan gasps.

 

“Oh fuck,” Ryland says.

 

“What the fuck?” Shane asks.

 

Garrett feels warmth gathering at his backs, sees the knees of one of the others as they kneel down on the other side of the body on the floor. No, this isn’t a body, this is- “Andrew?” he says fearfully. Without thinking, he puts one hand on the floor to steady himself and reaches out with the other to curve round Andrew’s shoulder. The touch elicits a flinch, but that’s it.

 

“Should we call an ambulance?” he hears Morgan say.

 

“What the fuck just happened?” he hears Shane ask.

 

Someone touches his own shoulder and Garrett jumps. He looks and Ryland is there, looking scared like Garrett’s never seen him. “Is he okay?”

 

_No!_ Garrett wants to scream. Instead, he turns back to Andrew, and finds him blinking himself awake.

 

Music is playing somewhere. Ryland shifts away from him briefly and Shane looks confused, and then the music stops. He’s turned the camera off, Garrett realises, and it brings him a wave of relief he doesn’t bother trying to understand. He shifts and kneels closer to Andrew.

 

“What…?” his best friend mumbles, looking dazed and disorientated. _Something’s wrong here_ , it occurs to him. He’s pale and- sick. He looks sick. Garrett doesn’t know why he didn’t realise it earlier, because it’s been obvious all along: Andrew’s never late- not when he’s by himself anyway, and he’s never not laughed at something he finds funny, and he’s never read one of Garrett’s goodnight texts without responding in kind, no matter how late it is, and he’s never willingly admitted to being sick once, in all the time that Garrett has known him, and if _that_ doesn’t make him feel like a piece of crap on the bottom of someone’s shoe he doesn’t know what does.

 

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” Garrett tells him as gently as he can. He rubs his shoulder, because it’s the only thing he can think to do. “You had a bit of an accident, but you’re okay. Can you tell me what hurts?”

 

Now that he's properly paying attention, he feels the heat rolling off of him, even from under his hoodie. Garrett doesn't think he's ever felt so guilty in his life.

 

"The camera." Andrew frowns, "Did I break the camera?"

 

"No," Morgan chimes in very calmly, as if a minute ago they weren't all terrified. "The camera's fine. How are _you_?"

 

The question elicits a confused mumble, then Andrew glances round and sees that, yes, they are all concerned for his well-being. He blushes and ducks his head in embarrassment. Garrett would find it cute if it wasn't for the fact he is _still on the floor_ and is _burning up_ and clearly _in pain_. "Sorry." Andrew mutters. Garrett feels his shoulders twitch underneath his hand and- he's going to try and get up, isn't he, yep, idiot. "'M fine. Sorry."

 

Garrett pushes him back down the two millimetres he had made it off the floor.

 

"Don't worry about it," Shane rushes to assure him. "I've dropped it fucking loads anyway."

 

"Everything's fine," Garrett promises at the same time he realises he's still rubbing Andrew's shoulder. Discretely- which is easy when the person whose eyes you're trying to avoid has his head buried in the carpet and his eyes squeezed shut- he motions to the other to come closer. They do.

 

"I don't think he needs an ambulance," he expands in a whisper. "I think it's just a regular bug. Virus. Bacteria- _thing_. But no way am I letting him out of bed for the next week."

 

"You want to borrow the handcuffs?" Shane replies and- they shouldn't be joking- Andrew's just collapsed- he's still on the floor- but they all giggle breathlessly and share gladness that it isn't anything serious. 

 

"Do you think he'll be alright at home?" Ryland asks. "He could stay here."

 

Part of Garrett wants to take him up on his offer. It'd be practical, he reflects as he strokes up and down Andrew's back. It'd be fun. It's be nice. It'd be good. The other part of him- the part that may or may not be hopelessly in love with his best friend- says to decline. Said best-friend is embarrassed enough as it is, even if there's no need for him to be. And he'd have to sleep on the couch here, and the dogs might pester him.

 

(The tiny, selfish part of him whispers that if they take Andrew home, Garrett can have him all to himself. It's not a voice Garrett's proud to have, but it's one he stops to consider before he answers, and he's ashamed.)

 

He looks back over at Andrew. At how he's curled up and tense and feverish and pale and _sick_. Sick in a way Garrett's never seen him. Embarrassed in a way he knows Andrew _hates_.

 

"I think he's probably better off at home. I mean- he's not _dying_. I'll stay with him for a couple of days if necessary, but... once the worst is over I think he'll be fine."

 

They all nod calmly. It's one of those rare moments Garrett feels like a proper, fully functioning, mature adult. "Okay, um- Shane, can you go start the car? We'll get him home, and- um, Morgan, I bet he won't have any medicine or anything at his apartment. He hardly ever gets sick, do you think...?" He hates to ask, feeling a pang of sympathy for how Andrew is feeling right this second. But these are good friends they have, and she's already nodding.

 

"I'll go ahead to CVS and pick up a few things."

 

He can only hope he looks as grateful as he feels.

 

A jacket is shoved into his vision. Startled, he looks up to see Ryland, who shrugs. "Well, I figured he might get cold- I've put all his stuff in the bag on the counter, seeing as he'll probably worry about it. And-" he whips out a bucket seemingly from nowhere and sits it down a couple of feet away from him. "Just in case... you know?" He waves his hand in an awkward gesture.

 

"Thanks," Garrett says. He loves these guys.

 

Ryland waves him off. "Don't worry about it. I'll go get in the car with Shane- see if we're trending on Twitter, whilst you...." he trails off, and Garrett regrets drunkenly confessing his unrequited crush to him and Shane that night back right around Valentine's Day. The heat burning his cheeks makes him feel fifteen years old again. "It'll probably work out better if it's only you with him," the other continues blithely, pulling his sweater over his head. "Just shout, if you need anything."

 

"Yeah," it's a struggle getting his mouth to remember how to speak. "Uh- Ryland? _Thanks_. And- um- and Shane, and Morgan. You're all- thanks."

 

"It's okay." Ryland answers gently. Then, he smiles and blows them a kiss as he herds the dogs out the door, "See you in a minute, darlings!"

 

Garrett laughs. Right up until the door clicks shut and he looks back to Andrew and remembers and, oh, yeah, shit. He kneels back in close again. "Andrew?"

 

The question gets him a minute "hmm" and the tiniest shift from the ball his friend has curled into. He looks, if anything, worse than he did five minutes ago, and Garrett feels terrible all over again.

 

_Would it have got this bad if I had noticed something earlier?_

 

"Andrew? Come on, buddy, we'll get you up and take you home. How does that sound?"

 

"Garrett?" it's weak, but he takes comfort in the fact he isn't slurring.

 

"It's just me," he promises. "What hurts?"

 

 

∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑  404  Motivation Not Found- anything after this is going to be an ungodly mess that I uploaded partly just to give you all some sort of closure and partly because we're meant to be celebrating our failures now  and I thought some of you might be interested to see how some fanfics are planned out and how one idea develops into another. 

 

the spooky squad and andrew has appendicitis but he's FINE and goes over to shane's house to film anyway and he's not really fine and they're all there and he's filming until he has to nearly drop the camera to run to the bathroom and puke and andrew's embarrassed as fuck and horrified and keeps apologising and the others are naturally sweethearts about it and kind and caring and try to get him to stay with them so they can look after him and he refuses because he's Fine and now even more embarrassed and just as he starts thinking they ought to get back to filming then shane says no way in hell is he letting him near a camera for the next week and they're all banding together to take care of him and he's not even puking any more just dry heaving and he's burning with embarrassment that the others take as part of the fever and they take him home and morgan and garrett go on ahead to the grocery store to buy him medication and things and shane goes to start the car and andrew's left with ryland, he didn't think he could get any more embarrassed about this but somehow it' worse with just one person there to focus on him and who's trying to help him and look after him- and andrew can't hardly even stand and is bent double because of how bad his stomach hurts and he's trying to find his jacket and things because it'd be RUDE if he just left his things all over the place, right?, then _ryland_ gets his hoodie and wraps him in it and fusses over some more and doesn't complain when he has to stop in the middle of the driveway bent double with one hand over his mouth and one hand wrapped round his stomach because it hurts and he's about to puke and andrew thinks he'll die of embarrassment before this bug can kill him because shane gets out of the car too and ryland goes to look for a bucket for the car ride and shane is awkwardly trying to tell him to puke if he has to and andrew won't because he's just so Pure but goddamn if he isn't a Mess right now and then ryland comes back and there's two sets of warm hands on his back and making him overheat and helping him to the car and he's fairly sure one of them even _buckles his seatbelt for him_ and there's a bucket between his legs and a hand rubbing his back and the car ride isn't helping the urge to puke his guts out and he's bent right across his knees nearly completely flat because it _hurts_ and he wants to rub his stomach but he's embarrassed enough as it is, no way in hell is he going to dig himself any deeper and somewhere in the middle of a traffic jam he realises the others have given up their _whole day_ for him and is super embarrassed all over again and tries to apologise and shane and ryland jump on it and tell him not to apologize and that it's fine and andrew wants to say _no it's not_ but the car finally starts moving again and he bites down a scream of pain and wraps his arms tighter round his stomach and he feels shane start rubbing his back again and asking if he's okay and if he needs to puke and he says no but then two seconds later is retching over the bucket and more mortified than he's ever been in his _life_ and when he stops he realises the car has stopped and they're there and they have been for a while and he's guilty about them wasting their time on him and gets out the car on his own but sways and can't stand straight for the pain and it's only ryland grabbing him that stops him curling up in a ball on the pavement for the rest of eternity and he hears morgan say whoa he looks worse and ryland scolds her because andrew is embarrassed enough as it is- though he doesn't say that part out loud- and andrew realises her and garrett are armed with nearly a whole pharmacy between them and feels worse and it coincides with the realisation he's going to have to climb stairs to his apartment _and_ with retching that brings up nothing pleasant and it burns and it hurts his throat and his head hurts and his stomach hurts and it's not just that bringing him to tears but the realisation if he's contagious he's given it to the others too and there's a mad scramble from the others when they realise he's in tears- not _crying_ , but they're there- and it only makes him feel worse and he realises he has no idea what time it is and he hopes none of the neighbours will be back from work and see him like this and then it goes fuzzy and only comes into perspective when a wall of heat appears and picks him up and then nearly drops him- garrett is trying to carry him inside andrew realises before he nearly drops him and andrew's embarrassed and insisting he can walk and staggers back maybe two steps on his own before another stomach cramp hits and he's doubling over so hard morgan drops everything she's holding to grab hold of him in her fear and so garrett carries him inside, up the stairs, into his apartment and then into the hallway and andrew realises the looming fear he's been feeling for the past two minutes is actually _he has no idea where the bucket's gone_ and he scrambles out of garrett's grip and into the bathroom and doesn't entirely make it and the others are absolute Sweethearts of course they don't let him clean it up himself even though he tries; they look after him and one of them hauls him back to the bedroom and- morgan?- helps him to change his clothes and helps him lie down and ryland is cleaning the mess up and being the only Adult and shane and garrett are going through the pile of shit he and morgan got at the pharmacy earlier and finally at the edge of his vision andrew sees the bucket being placed on the floor by the bed and breathes a sign of relief and the bucket is followed by the jean-clad legs of morgan giving him something and telling him something and putting something on the bedside table and he nods like he understands what's going on and then there's a cloud and haze and he's floating in the voices of his friends and half-awake and grateful to be hidden under the duvet where he can rub is stomach without anyone noticing and then shane comes and kneels at the side of the bed and immediately andrew stops and is embarrassed even though he knows no one saw and he thinks shane is stroking his hair??? maybe and is still fucking mortified and shane asks if he wants them to stay and andrew insists he's fine and it's all a bit of a feverish mess- trying to explain that he doesn't want them there though he does but he understands that he's taken up enough of their day and trying in the same words to not say that exact thing because this family he's found himself a part of won't leave him if he does and shane doesn't say anything and andrew finishes with "and I haven't puked in like ten minutes" and then there's this silence which shane eventually breaks by saying "I was just waiting for you to puke on cue sorry" and they laugh and its nice and the others file past his vision and ryland says his phone is there so he can call them if he needs them and garrett says they've left him some food and an electrolyte drink he ought to try and morgan says if he gets bored she's left him some pamphlets about different undertakers and funeral parlours and they all laugh and the next thing andrew knows it's the middle of the night and he's in pain and puking his guts out and too hot and wants the others there and doesn't call them and then there's a feverish haze and he _thinks_ another day's gone past and he hasn't gotten any better and he realises the others will be worrying about him, so he drinks the electrolyte they left him (garrett got him his favourite flavour he thinks when he tastes it) and thinks he ought to try and at least get up and if not change the sheets at least his clothes because he's so cold and clammy and soaked and probably stinks and he remembers how he was the other day and is embarrassed all over again- the others will more than likely come over, andrew realises, and he doesn't want them to come to a pig sty and with that thought he shuffles his butt closer to the edge of the bed, ignores the pain, and tries at sitting up. Vomit follows the same motion and he certainly has hold of the bucket but he can't actually work out if it actually went where he intended and he's crying again and it's so Hot- there must be a fire, andrew thinks, so he somehow makes his way to either the balcony or the front door onto the stair well (and only stops to puke once or twice, so he Must be getting better) and then he decides he can't worry the others any more- he'll just tell them it might be contagious and then they won't come round, easy peasy. So he calls the first number he comes to, which come to think of it is the last number he rang, and waits for ryland to pick up.

 

 

 


	2. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prologue to chapter three which will come out either today or tomorrow- I have about 3k words still to type up

Shane takes the first opportunity he gets to whisper to Ryland, "Is it just me, or does Andrew look sick?"

Ryland gives the redhead a discreet once over as Cheeto begs him for food he's hardly touched. "No. It's not just you."

"What D'you reckon I should do? 'Cuz if I ask he'll say 'no', and if I make it too obvious he'll get embarrassed, and if I don't say anything then I'll be a horrible person."

"Tell him the editing can wait for tomorrow- offer him a lift back home. Tell him you have to go that way anyway to go to Arbys?"

It's a very good idea. Shane smacks a kiss on his lips and bounces off into the kitchen. 


	3. the finished fic at last

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, when Andrew checks his phone in the dim halogen lights thrown out by the CVS, he sees that it’s dead. He swears, because it’s the only thing stopping him from crying.

An idea glimmers in him. with an energy fuelled by renewed hope, he fists his hand around the change in his pocket and yanks it out into the open.

And his hopes die.

Change sure, but not enough for a taxi or even a bus. The scant few dollars he had left the house with this morning have all gone on the contents of the plastic bag he holds in his other hand. Andrew swears again, sighs, and turns towards home. Without taking his eyes from the grey sidewalk beneath him, he starts to walk. With every step he stomps the tears down deeper.

_Stop being a baby_ , he wants someone to tell him. _This is nothing. You’re fine_. Andrew thinks it over and over and over. Something, anything, other than the pain. It’s not like it’s not like it’s far to his apartment. It’s not like he’s really that sick. It’s not like he _really_ needs help. He’s fine.

A traitorous part of his brain whispers that if he wasn’t so bad, Shane wouldn’t have sent him home.

The other part of him says that if he had just stopped being a baby for two seconds they could have filmed everything Shane wanted to film today, and Andrew wouldn’t have let everyone down. It’s that part that got him out of bed this morning, it’s that part that got him to Shane’s house. It’s that part that keeps him upright, and it’s that part that’s already planning how to film all the footage tomorrow to make up for today.

Andrew puts one foot in front of the other.

***

His stomach has been home to an ache for the past two days and Andrew is starting to consider it a problem.

_At last_ and it sounds eerily like Garrett's voice. He blocks it out and carries on walking.  It’s the only way to get home. It’s going to kill him, _Christ,_ shit, it _hurts_ ; only when he’s blinking his eyes open does he realises he’s bent double trying to ride through the cramps gnawing his stomach. Everything is woozy. He’s swaying, and compared to the solid still ground he feels under his sneakers it only makes him feel dizzier. Nearly hits himself in the head with the plastic bag and the stark fact that he’s a Mess™ only makes him want to cry. A passer-by stopped earlier to ask him if he was alright, and Andrew is ashamed of how he just mumbled a barely audible ‘thanks’ before carrying on walking.

Walking. He has to- why can’t he just sit down- please- please- it hurts- please- no more- please.

But he has to walk to get home. Can’t call an Uber because his phone is dead. Can’t call anyone because his phone is dead. Can’t get a taxi because he has no money. Can’t do anything without a phone or money. He checked his phone twice already and it’s still dead. Stupid, he’s so stupid, and it hurts, Christ _please_.

It’s late. He’s stood in the middle of the sidewalk. There’s nothing he can do but go one and try not to puke or collapse. One will follow the other like night follows day, and once he gives in he’s not getting home. More than anything, Andrew wants to go home, climb into bed and stay there until his stomach forgives him for whatever it was he ate two days ago. But he _has_ to go to Shane’s tomorrow- regardless of what the other man says, _Andrew_ wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t go. Guilt would burn a hole in his stomach that would hurt even worse than this. And- he's survived filing the documentary on Jake Paul, he can survive anything, right?

Andrew nods to himself. If he felt well enough an hour ago to walk home, he can’t be that bad, he decides. Carefully, he straightens up. It brings relief like the tide coming out and he feels himself smile for the first time since the start of this mess.

(Later, he’ll think how the tide goes out before a tsunami, too.)

He feels his body start to move, but he's caught up in a hazy cloud of relief, aware only of the plastic bag cutting into his fingers. _Yeah_ , he thinks. _I can make it home like this. No problem._

***

There was a problem.

The problem was, he couldn’t get home. Not on his own. After puking his guts out in a back alley for the better part of ten minutes, Andrew finally surrenders and makes the bitter retreat back up the street to the payphone he passed five minutes earlier, slumping with relief against the glass; pressing every inch of his overheated body into the coolness. It hurts. Admittedly, it’s hurt for the past two days. But the difference is he’s admitting it now. It hurts nearly as much as his stomach does; for a minute he ends up staring blankly at the keypad, trying to sift through the screaming of his brain for a coherent thought that includes a phone number.

It’s a paltry list- he hasn’t had to remember a phone number in a decade- hasn’t had to use a payphone for even longer- oh God what if he doesn’t- how will he get home- if he’s stuck here all night he could go straight back to Shane’s in the morning- but how- how- _how_ when the filthy glass is the only thing keeping him standing?

Andrew fingers the clammy coins in his pocket and wills his brain to _think_.

One thought staggers its way up the mountain of pain. He shuts his eyes and rests his head against the top of the phone. No. He can’t. He won’t.

His stomach twists and he punches the side of the phone box without opening his eyes. he has to.

There’s only one number he has memorised. Even when he isn’t tossing his cookies on a pile of rat droppings, there’s only one way he knows out of this mess. Same way he refused to ever use. Same way that Andrew has harboured a sort of crush cum sexuality crisis over for the past three years. (Why is he thinking about that _now_ of all times?!?! It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want Shane or Ryland or Morgan or his mom seeing him like this, and he for sure doesn’t have feelings for any of them.)

He whispers Garrett’s number over and over in the hopes that he’ll forget.

No.

A by-product of umpteen nights staring at his contact details debating whether to text him the truth, he supposes.

The exhale is loud in the night- everyone is sleeping, no one is around. It’s just him bleached bare by the bare light above his head. He doesn’t exhale for a long time. Everything slows down.

_I feel better_ Andrew tries to convince himself. _I can make it home_.

He doesn’t feel better and he can’t make it home.

It can’t have been more than an hour since he left Shane’s house, he tries to reason- Andrew will be the first to admit he’s not at his best today, but on an average day it’d only take him half an hour to walk halfway home. It’s not too late. Garrett will still be awake. He won’t be disturbing his friend’s new-found sleep schedule.

(He won’t be the reason for his friend’s second panic attack.)

Hell, Garrett doesn’t even have to pick him up, Andrew comes to the realisation with his chest swelling with a burgeoning hope- there’s no need- he can just call him an Uber and Andrew can pay him back. There’s no need to put anyone out, there’s no need to face crippling humiliation, there’s no need to worry. He can just go home and right to bed and sleep straight through til morning. He punctuates every coin drop with a pleased nod, and doesn’t try to hold back a smile as the ring echoes around the phone box.

***

His life has had its shit together for two months when his phone buzzes on the bedside table with an unrecognisable number. Garrett answers more out of curiosity and courtesy than anything- any telesales agent calling at 2 in the morning has to be dedicated, right?

“Hello?”

The voice wrenches him at the waist to sit bolt upright. “Andrew?”

“Yeah,” his voice cracks under the weight of something Garrett can’t understand. “Sorry for calling.”

“It’s fine,” he hurries to say- so quick he nearly doesn’t shut his mouth before blurting out “I’ll always answer the phone to you.” Night time makes him reckless, which would be fine if Andrew was his gay best friend, but he’s his straight best friend, and Garrett refuses to freak him out with the revelation of his years-long, unrequited crush. Then he realises what’s been bothering him since the moment Andrew spoke. Garrett relaxes against the headboard and tries to imbue his voice with the softness he feels.

"Hey man- you okay? It's just- you don't sound so good. And I didn't recognise your number."

"Yeah. No. Um-"

If he wasn't so worried, he'd be squee-ing right now. But the night brings worry lie werewolves, and its teeth are sunk deep into his heart. Time has stripped away both their anxieties- Andrew shouldn't be sounding so nervous- not around him- never around him- they're each other's best friends- why is Andrew nervous- what's happening- what's wrong- what's wrong- what's wrong.

"What do you need?" Garrett asks tenderly. Too tired, too worried, too smitten; he would give him his heart if he would only _ask_.

"Can you- I'll pay you back, obviously, I just- I need a favour- _couldyoucallmeanuber_? Please." He tacks on the last word and Garrett can see him blushing without even having to close his eyes.

"Course I can, buddy, wait- Andrew, where are you?" his finger is half a centimetre from opening the app before he entirely registers what his friend has just said. Suddenly his little cosy house has gone cold. Fear is prickling up his arms and crawling under the sleeves of his t-shirt. "Where are you calling from?" he demands; hates how shrill his voice has become- how worried- _this_ is why he doesn't call and just texts everyone- emotions are so much easier to control when he's conveying them in a little jumble of comic-sans letters.

"A payphone," Andrew admits.

_Why does he sound so weird?_ Garrett wonders.

"It's- I can't- I can't get home by myself." The small voice he says it in that's straining under his attempt at sounding normal has Garrett forsaking the _Uber_ app to scramble out of bed and pull on some proper clothes without a second thought. Andrew's embarrassed, Garrett knows. For someone who he knows to be shy at the best of times, calling and confessing must be a personal nightmare. That's okay- Garrett's always wanted to be an _Uber_ driver.

(A part of him whose existence he'll never admit rejoices that _he's_ the one Andrew called. Not Shane. Not Ryland. Not Morgan. Not Drew. _Him.)_

He tries to be the person he hopes he is. "Okay- that's okay, buddy. It's fine, don't worry about it. Where are you?" Where could he have gone in the six hours since Shane texted to say he had sent him home? A deluge of images crashes through Garrett's mind like a torrent and none of them good- seedy back alleys, looming shadows, danger snapping at him from the dark. When Andrew says "The payphone two blocks down from the gas station with the diner" it's all Garrett can do not to laugh.

"The diner near your house?" why couldn't he have made it the last ten minutes home?

"The one near the CostCo."

What has prevented him getting more than halfway home?

"Okay, yeah, I know the one." He shut the car door as quietly as he could, mindful of the precarious edge of friendship he balanced on.

"Sorry for calling."

"No! I mean- it's fine. You'd do the same for me. Hey, remember that time when-"

He goes on until there's a noise; a slither, a thump, a crack and an "Oh, shit" all at once.

"What was that?" his heart is in his mouth. Fear has his chest in a vice. There's no voice on the other end of the phone. "Andrew?"

"Shit."

"What's wrong?"

He _hears_ Andrew shaking his head, "It hurts, Gar'."

It's all Garrett can do not to turn the key and speed down the road at a hundred miles an hour. Andrew is- Garrett has to get there- something's wrong- he sounds wrong- he's never asked for help- properly, for actual help- not in all the time they've known each other. _Something is very wrong here_.

"Holy shit- no, shit. It's fine, buddy, it's fine- listen. I'm coming, alright? Help is on its way now. Can you see the number for the phone box anywhere? Or do you remember how to make a collect call?"

HIs phone is a life line. If he holds it any tighter it'll crack. He scarcely manages not to drop it when he keys the number into his notes and the feeling is just made worse by how _quiet_ his neighbourhood is at 2:08am.

"Andrew, I'm going to hang up and call back straight away, okay?"

The dead silence worries him, but the second he hears the scared tone of his friend he immediately wants it back. "What- Garrett- no-"

"It's okay." Garrett promises, telling himself that at least he knows where Andrew is as he presses 'end call'.

The ten seconds it takes him to ring back are the most horrendous moments of his life. Every ring that Andrew doesn't pick up warps into a countdown, and just as Garrett's convinced he's on the verge of his second panic attack, he picks up. He can't contain a sob of relief.

"Garrett?"

"Yeah," he chokes out, smiling. "Just hold on, sweetie. I'll be there in ten minutes."

_Less than that_ he thinks, seeing his foot already on the accelerator and tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. The next time he blinks, he's at the end of his road; so worried and so fast he nearly forgets to turn a corner. Worst case scenarios flash through his mind.

"Thanks," he's aware of Andrew mumbling. "You didn't have to."

_Yes I do._

"It's fine," Garrett insists, trying not to sound too comforting lest he causes further embarrassment then immediately worrying he sounds too cold. "Honestly, don't sweat it, just..." it occurs to him that in all the commotion he hasn't actually thought to as _why_ Andrew can't get home. _What's wrong with him_? "Look, Andrew, this might sound, um- what's wrong?" he blurts out accidentally, then bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"It's my- I don't- um. I think I'm coming down with something."

(Later, Garrett will treasure that confession and it's admission of trust like a dragon guarding gold.)

Andrew's still speaking, he realises, and forces his brain to listen. "- and now you'll come and you'll catch it too and- oh- _fuck_ -"

"Hey, hey, it's fine, Andrew- honestly, it's fine." Of course it is. Andrew would do the same for him.

(Would do it, that treacherous part of his brain whispers, without harbouring a secret crush. But Garrett ignores the voice. He'd like to think he'd do the same for his other friends.)

"Don't worry about it, okay?"

"Okay."

If it weren't for how... _not Andrew_ he sounds, Garrett would be tempted to make a TFIOS joke, but he holds his tongue- he's got a feeling that his voice isn't what Andrew needs right now.

He turns another corner; realises he's been driving on autopilot all this time and he's got no idea how long it's been or what he's going to say or do when he gets there. The ground rises beneath hi, and over the top of the hill the diner throws out stark white illumination in the distance and Garrett turns towards it like it marks Bethlehem. Absently, he wonders what his friend has been doing in the six hours since he was last seen, but puts it to one side. _Later_.

He's four blocks away and white knuckling and hunched over the steering wheel; damn near nose touching the windshield. There's God-forsaken noises coming from somewhere on the other end of the phone that Garrett's brain is refusing to process until a later date. He's four blocks away from Andrew.

Three. Two.

One.

Turns the corner and as soon as he spots the phone box, he hits the brakes unthinkingly and is out of the car without even checking that he's shut the door.

Huddled underneath the halogen of a dirty phone box, blurred from the grime on the glass, trembling with shivers Garrett can see even from a distance, is a small grey figure like a dying bird.

Garrett _runs_.

"Andrew?!" he asks frantically, wrenching open the door so hard it hurts his shoulder. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

Stupid question- stupid stupid stupid- stupid Garrett- he's not okay- he looks- he looks like _crap_. In all the years they've known each other Garrett has never seen him look as bad as this. He looks _bad_. He thought he'd looked bad after he finished the _Jake Paul Series_ , but it's got nothing on _this:_ trembling like a leaf. Pale as a ghost. Tired as a corpse Sick as a dog. There's a maternal part of Garrett that's screaming to wrap him up in a blanket and take him home and tuck him into bed.

“Holy smokes,” he says shakily, wondering why his legs aren’t moving. Why he isn’t moving. Why he isn’t helping. Why is he frozen?

The figure on the ground tilts its head and looks up. The receiver is still in its hand; perched on its shoulder like a baby; clutched like a lifeline. “Gar’?” says Andrew.

With a thump, he’s fallen to his knees and is getting as close as he can. Even sat down, Andrew is still sunk lower. Garrett can smell vomit and fear and feels the heat coming off of him without even having to touch him. He pulls Andrew into a hug anyway. There’s a squawk of surprise, then a sob. Then they’re clinging to each other to keep from drowning.

How long they stay like that, Garrett can’t tell. But when he emerges out of the waves he hears himself muttering “I’m here, I’m here” over and over and over again. It’s long while before he can stop. Before either of them are ready to think about anything else.

When he’s finally run out of words, he takes a minute to look around. There’s a puddle of garishly-coloured puke watering the scant scrub of grass outside, the receiver hanging down on its metal cord like a noose. Andrew’s shirt is soaked through with sweat and tucked under one knee and digging into Garrett’s hip is a pink bottle of CVS-brand pepto bismol and seizing his shirt are Andrew’s trembling fingers.

Garrett never wants to let him go.

Eventually- time is bleached meaningless in the florescent lights and the smothering of the dark blue sky black like a bruise- Andrew pulls away just enough to say: “Sorry.”

“What for?”

Garrett isn’t sorry. He’s very, very glad. Glad Andrew trusted him. Glad Andrew called him. Glad he got here so quick. Glad he didn’t crash on the way here. Glad he’s here now. Glad it’s _him_ seeing Andrew like this and no one else. Glad Andrew isn’t going to feel embarrassed any more than he already does. Glad he’ll never have to tell anyone about the horrid dark thoughts he’s having. Garrett is really fucking glad.

“Calling.” Andrew explains. “You didn’t have to come. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Garrett replies, rubbing his shoulder. “Let’s get you home, huh?”

He nods and- in a move that makes Garrett want to both laugh with expectation and cry with exasperation- shakily tries to get his legs underneath him and stand up. Without a second thought, Garrett puts his hands under his arms and lifts him onto his feet as if he’s as light as a feather.

Andrew sways in his bent-over position, going a further shade of pale so he’s that bit closer to resembling _Casper the Friendly Ghost_. Then, hesitantly, wraps one arm around Garrett’s waist.

Garrett’s heart soars for joy. Garrett’s heart plummets with fear.

Andrew doesn’t- he isn’t- if he’s just automatically reaching for help without asking- is just _resigned_ to the idea, then it’s bad. Something is seriously wrong and he must feel like death warmed over.

Garrett thinks on the bag in his friend’s hand. The time of night. Him going home and curling up in bed alone and in pain and refusing to call anyone first out of stubbornness and later because he couldn’t move. The idea nearly reduces him to tears. It’s all he can do not to just pick Andrew up and carry him back up the street to the car.

“Garrett?” a quiet voice interrupts his thoughts.

Without thinking, he tightens his grip round his shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Do you still keep a bucket in the trunk of your car?”

Garrett winces when understanding hits, “Yeah, it’s still there. Don’t worry.” He wants to assure Andrew that he would love him even if he puked all over his car, but holds his tongue- firstly, he’s not thinking about the l-word, and secondly, there’s no way he can assure him of that without it coming out awkward and gross and vaguely disgusting. He settles on patting his shoulder instead, and gets them the last couple of metres to where he’s left his car. The door is still open, and for a scary second he can’t find his keys, until he spots them in the ignition and breathes a sigh of relief. Shakily, Andrew pulls away and Garrett leaves him to climb in whilst he goes round the back and fishes out the bucket left over from a video he can’t remember.

Half past two in the morning is _dark_ , Garrett realises. Of course he’s been awake at this time before- Queen Mary, anyone?- but he’s never truly been _outside_ at that time before. Not outside, and not with a sick-as-a-dog best friend in the passenger seat of his car. And… he’s scared, sort of. Worried. Scared. Shit scared, if he’s quite honest. Grips the edge of the bucket so hard his knuckles are white and slams the trunk shut too loud for the silence that’s settled over the world. 

Going back round to the front of the car, Andrew is hunched over so far over his knees and Garrett feels his heart in his mouth; for a second he's frozen in the middle of the road in the middle of the night in the middle of the biggest crisis he’s ever had because for one second he’s convinced Andrew is _crying_ , and Garrett’s never seen a scarier sight.

Mid-step, he swerves and heads round to the passenger side instead, dropping the bucket on the sidewalk beside him, opening the door and kneeling down next to him. The cold of the sidewalk seeps through his pants to his knees, but Garrett can’t see anything except Andrew.

“Hey,” he asks gently, reaching over to rub a hand up and down his back. “You okay?” It’s an entirely ineffectual question for the circumstances he’s found himself in, and it’s also the only thing he knows to ask that won’t embarrass Andrew even more than he already is. Garrett wants to wrap him up in a blanket and cozen him away to his tiny house for a week or two; away from everyone until they’re both ready to face the world again and bury what’s happened tonight deep down to never talk about again. It must be the trust, he thinks, part grim, part honoured, part worried more than ever. The trust that Andrew is showing him, letting him see him in this state, when Garrett knows he probably wants nothing more than to turn invisible and sink through the floor.

“Mmm,” Andrew responds without moving a millimetre. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?”

He snorts, and they’re so close Garrett can see how the action makes him curl in on himself even tighter with the pain it causes. “I couldn’t get home because of a fucking _tummy ache_ , Garrett.”

“It must be one hell of a tummy ache,” Garrett shoots back. “Besides- you _can_ still get home. You just needed a bit of help, is all.”

_And there’s nothing_ wrong _with that_ , he wants to add; only he knows that it would be pointless. Andrew is stubborn and shy and would rather break both legs than ask for help. It’s what makes him Andrew, and by God does Garrett love Andrew.

Discretely, he places the bucket between Andrew’s feet and carries on rubbing his back, trying to communicate everything he can’t put into words.

“Still. Thanks for coming.”

“It’s okay.” He’ll repeat it a thousand times over if he has to. “Just… _talk_ to me, man. Where have you been? Shane said you left his house ages ago.”

“What’re you talking about, Gar’? I came straight here. I stopped at CVS after leaving Shane’s house, but after that. I came straight here.”

Something in Garrett twists. He feels the heat rolling off of Andrew and wonders if perhaps that’s to blame. “It’s three in the morning, sweetie.”

Andrew blinks and confusion floods over his face, “What- but- _oh my God I called you so late._ ”

He nearly snorts; _of course that’s what the idiot would focus on_.

“Andrew- _Andrew_ ,” he cuts off his anxious rambling before it can begin. “It’s fine- it’s- hey, look at me, it’s _fine_. I’m- well, not happy. But I’m glad you called. Me. I’m glad you called me, and- hey, how about we get you home? How’s that sound?”

Andrew turns his head away and nods slowly. “Good,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms tighter round his stomach and burying his face in his knees. “Sounds real good.”

Garrett forces himself to pull away and stop touching him. feels slightly disgusted with himself; as if he’s been taking advantage to be as touchy feely as he can because it’s all he’s ever going to get when that’s the last thing that should be on his mind. “Get it together, Garrett,” he tells himself roughly, pausing before he clambers into the driver’s seat. Through the glass, Andrew is sitting curled in on himself and oblivious to his internal conflict. Watching him makes Garrett’s own insides feel tight. A cloud descends over the glass as his breath fogs it up. He squints at the clock on the dashboard. 2:42am. It’s dark- what would have happened to Andrew, if he hadn’t called? What would have happened if he hadn’t gotten home?

The idea hurts, yet for some reason the image of his friend curled up alone _at home_ is the most hurtful of all.

***

“We’re here,” Garrett announces and Andrew feels himself die a little inside. Garrett is so… _nice_. He’s nice and kind and he came and fetched him and it’s the middle of the night and Andrew is a mess and he’s been holding back vomit for the last mile because if he pukes in Garrett’s car, bucket or no, he’s going to cry. It's a sorry state that he's found himself in.

He can't quite work out how to get out of the car without kicking the bucket with his feet, and he feels like a wretched and useless human being, and a horrible, shitty friend. "You okay?" asks Garrett's voice.

"Yeah."

He forces himself out of the car and can't stand straight for the pain. Everything is swaying- or maybe it's _him_ that's swaying. A warm hand comes out to grasp his arm and steady him, but it's too hot and only adds to the sick feeling swirling in his chest and then he's retching into the gutter straining to _get it out_ and Garrett's there and _Garrett's there,_ Andrew doesn't think he's ever been so embarrassed in his _life_ and there's two flights of stairs to his apartment and Garrett is the only thing stopping him curling in a ball on the sidewalk for the rest of eternity and oh shit it hurts oh shit fuck Christ-

At least none of his neighbours are going to be awake to see him like this.

***

"Right, let's- holy shit, you are _not_ okay!" Something fearful seizes him. But it's not fearful. Something deeper. Something painful. All parts of him are united now. They are afraid.

Andrew has tears in his eyes. Not - _crying_ , but... somehow this is worse. _Why isn't he crying properly?_ Garrett wonders, then hates himself. Has to stop himself from gripping Andrew's arm any tighter. _Is he so fucking desperate he wants Andrew to cry as a means of validation and proof of how much he trusts him?_

Even if he is, that's not the sort of person Garrett wants to be.

In what is perhaps a crude imitation, he tries to act the sort that he does.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's get you to bed."

Twenty minutes ago when he had to buckle Andrew's seatbelt for him. Because that is what you have to do when you're in a car. Now it looks like he'll have to carry him up the stairs. Because that's what you have to do when you live in a second-floor apartment. Garrett lets his brain take a vacation. He'll figure out his feelings after everything's sorted, not before. Andrew first, awkwardness second, unrequited crush third. He loops his arm through the handle of the bucket, locks the car, and then in one fell swoop heaves Andrew into his arms. Remembers snippets of when they had gone on their road trip to Coachella and somehow found themselves in a similar position, but for the fact Andrew hadn't been infected with some God-awful virus then. The memory nearly makes him smile into the mop of ginger hair that's tucked under his chin.

"Right. Come on, Andrew."

He starts across the street and up the stairs.

 

 

He nearly drops Andrew five steps in.

 

He re-adjusts.

 

 

They make it to Andrew's front door in one piece.

Garrett is a little proud of himself.

 

"Garrett?" comes a soft moan when he deposits his friend on the landing. "Wha's going on?"

"Where's your keys?" he's two seconds away from frisking him and retrieving them from his pocket himself when Andrew cottons on and fishes them out for him.

"Here?"

"Thanks," Garrett unlocks the door, then steadies himself against the frame as Andrew suddenly rushes past him. Before he can even start to frown, let alone ask _what the hell_ , he hears retching from further down the hall where the bathroom is. Garrett's face twists from frown to wince, then cringes with disgust as he hears faint splashing. Contagious or not, if he has to listen for much longer he'll end up in much the same state as Andrew.

Yet, his feet take him down the hall to the bathroom.

When he enters, Garrett feels horrible with sympathy. Andrew is a dead ringer for _Casper the Friendly Ghost_ , and he'd make a passable stand in for a corpse. The vomiting is over now, for which he's sure they're both grateful, and he flushes the toilet without looking, surprised he had anything left to bring up. Even in his own apartment, Andrew refuses to slump all the way down to the floor; instead he's hunched over and relying on the wall to keep him upright and the way the edge of the toilet seat is digging into his knee. Now, Garrett admits to himself that maybe he should have taken Andrew back to his house instead. Or Shane's. Surely none of the others would be as useless as he is currently feeling- this family he's found would know what to do- what to say- what next- what if something goes wrong- how could it go wrong, things are bad enough already- they're bad things are bad oh shit- breathe. Garrett. Breathe. Think.

_Well, when I feel like shit, I want to be in bed_. That's a plan. A _good_ plan. And he can get some clean, dry pyjamas for him to wear and- if he needs to puke he should stay in bed- so he'll need a bucket- then Garrett can sleep on the sofa- and- _yes_. A plan. He has a plan. "Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Clean your teeth," Garrett orders, shoving his toothbrush into his hand. "Get the taste out your mouth. Then you can go to bed, how does that sound?"

"Good." And the relief on Andrew's face is like the sun coming out. Garrett gets out of the bathroom door like there's a rocket up his ass- how can relief be so breath-taking?

***

3:32am

He guides Andrew into bed with a 'thump' of the mattress and finally feels like he can breathe. There is a small, quiet niggle of noise from Andrew, and then silence. Unbidden, Garrett slumps forward and rests his forehead on Andrew's. If they can't be intimate after a midnight ordeal, can they even be friends?

"Alright, sweetie. Here we are. You just sleep now, okay? Don't worry about a thing. Shout if you need anything- I'm gonna crash on your couch for a bit."

Andrew stirs. "What... you don't have to stay, Gar', honestly. I mean-" the blush that spreads over his cheeks is cute-" You _can_ , obviously. But you don't have to-"

"I want to." Garrett says firmly. "Even though you're a mess."

Like liquid, a smile stretches across Andrew's face and he reaches up and musses weakly at Garrett's hair, "Now who's a mess?"

"Still you," and he boops his nose for emphasis.

The fact that Andrew stops laughing because it obviously hurts to do so brings him crashing back down to Earth and awkwardness and awful reality and alarm. Patting his shoulder, he makes to stand up. "Right. Bedtime for you. Night, Andrew."

Andrew's hand catches hold of his wrist like a nail snagging his collar as he jumps off a cliff. "Wait. I- Gar'- you didn't have to do all this- it's- _thanks_ , honestly. Will you- could- no- never mind- and- yeah. Night."

"No," Garrett asks in spite of the sensible part of his brain telling him to leave well alone. He can never be sensible when it comes to Andrew. "What is it? What do you need?"

Garrett will walk all the miles back to the CVS near Shane's house right fucking now if he needs to.

"Just- stay? _Here_ , I mean. Not- not on the couch. Please?"

The universe has a warped sense of timing.

What was he just saying about not being sensible where Andrew is concerned?

Garrett kicks off his shoes and walks round to the other side of the bed and clambers under the covers. Stops just short of reaching out and wrapping an arm round Andrew's waist- probably wouldn't be appreciated just now, when he's currently suffering with the stomach ache of the century, so he settles for patting his thigh gently and settling in as close against his back as he dares. Andrew is facing away from him, where Garrett had thoughtfully thought to position him with easy access to the bucket, and it could look almost like they were spooning. When everything is better, he tells himself, then he can look back on this night and fashion his memories to whatever he wills. It's about Andrew tonight, and what'll make _him_ feel better, and Garrett's surprised to find that absolutely no part of his brain is thinking about anything else, but he's pleased too.

"That better?" he asks in a whisper, dreading the answer.

"Perfect." Andrew whispers back. This will be a secret the two of them will share, they seem to agree silently in that moment. No one else will ever have this puddle of warmth flowing into the dip in the mattress where their combined weight pools. It's just for the two of them.

Garrett goes to sleep.

***

"No, Shane, I don't think you should all come over. He feels crappy enough as it is- no- n- no, he's not dying! Don't be ridiculous. But he's- you saw him last night, he's not well, and- no, like _really_ sick, no, I don't think he needs a hospital- no, _Shane!_ \- oh for- put  Ryland on and go take a Xanax, okay?... Thank you."

"Garrett? Why is my boyfriend freaking out?"

"Andrew's sick and Shane thinks because he would prefer _peace and quiet_ that means he must be dying." There's a pause. "He's not," Garrett adds.

"I'm sure you'll take care of him, Gare-Bear." God, he can practically _hear_ Ryland's smirk. So maybe that late-night drinking session and subsequent drunken confession wasn't a good idea, but they're all clever after the fact, and Garrett is safe in the knowledge that his intention's these past twelve hours have been nothing but good. "He is okay though, right? I saw him yesterday and he looked like one of Uno's craps."

"He's fine," Garrett assures himself as much as Ryland. "Well.... he's not. He's gonna be out of it for a few days, at least. But he'll be fine."

"Right and- _what? No, Morgan, I don't_ \- Morgan says 'give him our love'. And- oh, Shane wants to know if we definitely shouldn't come over."

"No. Even if he wasn't sick, Ryland, it'll just embarrass Andrew- you know what he's like."

" _See? I told you so- no he's sure- so am I and we're not going-_ Yeah. I know. Okay- you'll call if you need anything though, won't you?" Ryland's voice is soft and kind and if Garrett wasn't pretending to not know what he really meant he would be wondering why all his friends seem to think that doing this is somehow going to be difficult for him.

"Of course I will. Thanks. Bye guys." And the line cuts and they're gone.

Garrett turns on his heel back up the hallway to beyond the bedroom door. The early afternoon sun has bleached Andrew an even paler shade of white than he was ten minutes ago when Garrett last checked; he's curled up and looking smaller than he has any right to and he's kind of breaking Garrett's heart right now, but he'll deal with that later. Sleep is still tangled around his brain- the peril of bed-sharing was that you woke when the other did, and Andrew woke up _a lot_. First to puke up the medicine Garrett forced down him, then to try and heave out the emptiness that was left, and then once in the middle of all of that because he thought there were spiders crawling on him- and, no, it wasn't just phantom feelings from where Garrett's touch had been, because Garrett sleeps like the dead and his hands didn't go anywhere all night except to stop his friend from falling out of bed headfirst onto the floor.

But now said friend has been asleep for seven hours straight and Garrett is at a loss as to what to _do_. Leaving is out of the question. He finished the last of the spontaneous cleaning two hours ago. He's read all of Andrew's books already and forgotten the password to their shared Netflix account and there's nothing in the cupboards that could support a manic baking hour. When Shane had called, he'd been puttering about for five minutes making a game of looking out the window of every room but the bedroom, and now even that's lost its appeal.

With soft tip-toes, Garrett makes his way into the bedroom. Andrew doesn't look any better up close- he's still burning with fever, for one, and curled up tight into a ball for two, and Garrett's trying _really hard_ not to Google his symptoms because he knows it won't end well.

There's only one thing he _wants_ to do and there's only one really sensible thing he can think of to do, and that's to climb back into bed _next to Andrew_ and go back to sleep _next to Andrew_ and sleep _next to Andrew_ and- what was that about his good intentions?

This is an opportunity Garrett is not going to miss; the fact that it's relatively guilt-free is a bonus. _I just thought it'd be best if I was near him in case he needed something, Your Honour, honest._

 

Though he tries to accomplish his task as carefully as he can, he still wakes Andrew up. He rises into consciousness with a blink and a sleepy mumble, "Garrett?"

"Only me." He confirms, waiting for the rejection. The sensibility. The reality.

"Oh."

That's... better than his anxiety feared. "How're you feeling?"

The only indication of a shrug is that his grey shirt bunches into shadows around his shoulders; the plain to see exhaustion makes Garrett's heart ache. "Okay."

"Liar."

A tiny smile quirks on his lips. "Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

They fall into giggles, and Andrew is quick to cut the sound off by curling in on himself further, wrapping his arms around his waist tighter, burying himself into the pillow deeper. Garrett instantly feels guilty. "Sorry." Automatically, his hand has reached out to grip Andrew's shoulder. "D'you think painkillers would help?"

He shakes his head in refusal. "Tried them a couple times already," he breathes shallowly around the pain. "Didn't help."

"How long have you been sick for?" A bad feeling blooms. "Andrew?"

"Since Monday."

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Today is Thursday. _Why didn't you say something?!?!_ is on the tip of his tongue; roaring in his mouth; raring to be unleashed. Garrett bites his tongue. Thinks of Andrew spending two nights sleepless- in pain and alone, trying to come up with an excuse good enough to call someone and his brain refusing to play ball.

"You idiot." he says, not without fondness.

"Sorry."

"Next time- though holy smokes I hope there won't be a next time, but- _you tell me_. You tell- Christ, you tell _someone_. You tell- you don't even have to- you could just make something up if you're embarrassed about- but you don't pretend everything's fine. Got it?"

"Got it."

And he looks ashamed, so Garrett knows he does.

And he knows that something has cracked between them. A wall. A barrier. Garrett knows Andrew will tell him next time. Just like Garrett will tell Andrew next time he lets his life get out of control.

"Okay," he becomes aware of the awkward, bolt-right position he is in and how is back is twinging at him in displeasure and slides down to horizontal. Closer to the man next to him than they were last night, but Garrett thinks they both need it.

In the white noise of a Thursday afternoon, he tries to think of what to do. Dehydration, is the only thing that comes to mind, but he's also of the mind that Andrew will say no if he offers to get him something. And it's a sign of the trust between them that it won't be because he doesn't want to bother Garrett but because he probably won't be able to keep it down, but it doesn't make the situation any easier to deal with. He's thrown his brain out to fish for an idea, and now it's lost in a churning sea. There's only one idea that he has anything more than an inkling about, and it's stupid and ridiculous and he doesn't know if Andrew will like it and he doesn't know what Andrew will say and it's so stupid but it's the only coherent thought he has at this point in time and without thinking any more he reaches out and sticks himself up against the smooth, t-shirt-clad plain of Andrew's back and gingerly sneaks his own hand through the tangle of limbs and blankets to wrap around his waist and rest carefully over his stomach. Andrew goes still.

"There?" Garrett asks and by some miracle his voice does not break.

Andrew breathes. Garrett is so close he _feels him breathe_ and-

"Yeah," comes his tentative reply.

Garrett spreads his fingers out as wide as they can go and starts rubbing Andrew's stomach whilst tucking his chin into the dent between his shoulder and the mattress like it's the most natural thing in the world and they're not balancing on a razor thin wire of friendship. "Just- figured this might help a bit, you know?"

Andrew relaxes in his arms like waves crashing on the shore. "Yeah," he replies, voice weak with relief. "It helps. Thanks."

Garrett does not stop even after Andrew falls asleep.

***

He's dying he's dying he's dying he's got to be fucking dying it hurts so bad oh shit oh shit oh _shit_ it hurts oh fuck where's Garrett?

"I'm here," says a disembodied voice floating somewhere above his head.

Okay, okay. Okay. Andrew tries to recollect himself; or at least _breathe_. Something cold is pressing into the side of his face, and when he opens his eyes he sees it's the bathroom floor and he's nearly nose to nose with the toilet and Garrett is sitting behind him surprisingly not tearing his hair out with worry. Andrew feels bad in a way that has nothing to do with his stomach.

"Garrett-" his mouth tastes like vomit. Gross. "Shit, Gar', I'm sorry. If you want to go home-"

"You're stuck with me now, Siwicki."

_How I wish that was true_. But he doesn't say anything- even if this was a universe he was going to confess his long-hidden crush in, there's no way in hell he would do it when said crush has just seen him puke everything he's ever eaten for the last ten years and given him a belly rub that brought more relief than he knows.

"Okay," Andrew replies. even though he doesn't feel anything within a mile of 'okay'. Wonders if the past few hours have been one feverish hallucination after another because first Garrett drove him home, then carried him up the stairs, then they shared a bed and Garrett _looked after him_ and then five (ten?) minutes ago helped him to come and puke in the toilet because- oh God he didn't.

"Tell me I didn't throw up on you," Andrew demands, mortified. If both hands weren't wrapped round his stomach he'd be hiding his face.

"No." Garrett sounds faintly amused. "Only the duvet."

But whilst Garrett was asleep next to him. Curled round him. Lying against him. "Oh my God." Andrew groans. "I've never been so embarrassed in my _life_."

"What about last night when you called me to come and pick you up?" the other teases at the same time Andrew feels his hand reach out to stroke up and down his back.

"Please don't ever mention that again."

"Alright fine- never shall I ever, for as long as we both shall live."

The words make Andrew laugh properly for the first time in days. He just has time to think _that could be the vows at our wedding_ before the laughter brings nausea and a fresh wave of cramps and he's surging off the floor to heave into the toilet and straining to bring his intestines up to add to the Los Angeles sewage.

***

"Never shall I ever, for as long as we both shall live," Garrett says, then kicks himself- one because _that is not subtle at all_ and two because making Andrew laugh has already proven to be a bad idea, and Garrett hates both the vomiting and the guilt that follow.

There's very little he can do except for wait for it to end, and the minute it does he coaxes more of the chalky pink medicine into Andrew's mouth and settles his head in his lap instead of the cold floor by way of apology. He can't go back to bed until Garrett's changed the sheets, and he can't go to the sofa until Garrett cleans out the bucket to accompany him on the trip there, and Garrett can't do that until he's convinced that Andrew will be fine on his own for five minutes and he's really, really not.

He is convinced that God truly does exist, though- as proven by the fact that despite the two of them eating the exact same meals the week before (often stealing food right off Andrew's plate-sometimes for Snapchat, sometimes just because), he has somehow managed to avoid getting sick. Between the two of them, they still can't pinpoint exactly what it was, but it's a mystery for another time. Garrett has to lean over Andrew to flush the mess away, and steady himself with one hand on the tiles at an awkward angle so he doesn't fall headfirst it. When he sits back up straight, his hand comes with him and falls (accidentally, this time) on Andrew's stomach. Andrew makes a noise too much like a whimper for Garrett to bear. The reality of the situation is hitting Garrett full force. Andrew is _sick_. Sicker than Garrett's ever seen him, though now he thinks about it he doesn't think he's ever actually seen Andrew sick before last night. Not hospital worthy, _yet_ , but he's given in to Google and all the websites say that if someone can't even keep water down for more than an hour they should go to a hospital before dehydration sets in, and Garrett is _scared_. He's not adult enough for these situations. If he was then he wouldn't spend half the time thinking about how he has feelings for the man with his head resting in his lap right now.

Garrett tries to not think about it all, but his thoughts are dragged back by the heat rolling off Andrew's body- his hand is still under his shirt for Christ's sake and- frowning, Garrett spreads his fingers out as far as they can go. Under his palm, he can _feel_ Andrew's stomach cramp and _ouch_ , he doesn't need to be a doctor to tell that that's gotta hurt like hell. Without thinking, he starts rubbing Andrew's stomach again. A brief _what the hell are you doing_ whizzes through his mind, but it's gone before he can dwell on it.

"Andrew?" he asks. Speaking takes him several attempts. "This okay, bud?"

Andrew nods. The look of relief on his face breaks Garrett's heart. "Yeah," he manages in a voice that's barely audible. "Yeah, thanks- it's- can you keep doing it?"

Garrett nods even though his friend has his eyes closed. He sits back against the side of the bath. He'll sit and stay here for the rest of the afternoon and the whole of the night if he has to. "Of course," he responds with a calm he doesn't feel. "Does it help?"

Andrew nods again. "'S the only thing that does. Sorry."

He sounds so _tired_. When this is over, Garrett's going to make sure he sleeps for an entire week.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

***

Google should be banned. Or WebMD and Wikipedia. The stuff Garrett reads on there is even scarier than that time they all went ghost hunting with Bunny.

***

"Um... oh. Shit. Andrew? Hey, _Andrew_ , I know you want to sleep man but just- can you tell me _where_ exactly your stomach hurts, 'cause if it's on the right side- what, so- definitely on your right? _Shit_."

***

_Thank God for WebMD_ Garrett thinks as he cracks his spine and settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the hospital bed. Then: _Shane is gonna absolutely freak._

***

"Where am I?" is the first thing Andrew says when he comes round from the anaesthetic, which is a reasonable query, Garrett thinks, except for the fact that during the night he grabbed hold of Andrew's hand and is still holding it and it's _very obvious_ even to someone who has just been through kind-of-major surgery.

"The hospital," he explains instead. At the confused, bleary look he adds, "Turned out you actually had appendicitis and not food poisoning. But you haven't got either now. And, um, you also don't have your appendix either."

"Wha.... oh. _Oh_ ," he tries to bring his hands up to hide his face and can't and looks down to see his left one is still being held tight in Garrett's own.

"Sorry." Garrett feels his world crashing down as reality returns to normal. He pulls his hand away- or tries to. Andrew inexplicably tightens his grip.

"Wait, what for?"

"Because you called and you- I was meant to be _helping_ you. Instead I was just thinking about all these stupid things."

"I think about stupid things too."

Garrett freezes. Andrew cannot mean what he wants him to mean, but hope is a dangerous thing.

"And you _did_ help me, first of all- this isn't the drugs talking, though, shit maybe I should have said that bit first, but..." he lifts his head up to look at him. Their hands are still touching and Garrett can feel his fingers burning. "Your number is the only one I have memorised, not any of the others- just yours, you know?"

With a breathless sigh he leans forward and buries his head in Andrew's shoulder. "I know," he whispers softly. There is a soft murmur in return and an arm comes up and circles his shoulders.

"Let's save the first kiss for later," Andrew says, and Garrett thinks he has probably deliberately pitched his voice so quiet to hide how nervous must be. _Well_ , he thinks, _that makes two of us_. "I planned on kissing you in a better place than a hospital... and I probably still taste of puke anyway."

He doesn't mean to, but he laughs. "Holy smokes," he says, the happiest he's ever been in his life. "Okay." And he kisses Andrew's shoulder just above the hem of the hospital gown.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Garrett tilts his head back and sees Andrew is smiling at him. "I've waited two years already. What's two days?"

Andrew's expression softens. "Oh my God, you've been so patient."

When his hand tentatively comes up to touch his cheek, Garrett breaks into a smile of his own. "It's okay. You can pay me back when _you_ call the others and tell them you're in the hospital."

"Oh my God," Andrew repeats, laughing. "Shane is going to freak out."

"Later," Garrett mumbles. _After I kiss you_.


End file.
